Skyllah
=Physical Description= I haven't been able to get my hair out of this ponytail. =Personality= A friend to friend and an enemy to enemies. =History= On the day before my wedding, there was no reason to celebrate. I was the only one who remembered, I'm sure. It was a strange time. Monsters walked the land. Monsters that looked like the people who owned the farms near ours. I had hoped beyond hope that the village of of Brill would be left alone, an outpost of sanity amongst the roads packed with refugees. As I watched them, unseen behind trees, I noticed that behind them were monsters, and that the refugees would not live another day. A fast-riding horseman rode into our farm, and spoke urgently with my mother and father. They both made sad eyes to the east, where Brill lay. It seemed the world had ended, that almost everyone I knew outside my family had succumbed to the strange plague that swept my land, yet we were still untouched, isolated in our farm near the coast. My groom-to-be, however, lived in the middle of the village of Brill, and the only things to be heard from there were the licking of flames and guttural sounds. We stayed far, far away. My father had begun to fortify our small, one room farm house that day. The flow of refugees had slowed and I heard dad mutter words I had never heard as he filled water skins and brought sacks of meal down to the basement. I busied myself with the small cantrips I had learnt, healing an abcess in the mule’s hoof, soothing a welt on my sisters hand where the reins had burnt her palm, exciting stuff. The little brat stuck her tongue out at me anyhow, as if I had hurt her instead of healed her. As I returned from milking the least-panicked goat, I saw a strange mushroom I hadn’t seen before. As I stepped closer to it, each step shook the ground enough so that spores shook out of it. I sneezed once, and fell. When I came to my senses I was in my parents bed. The house had been emptied of all furnishings except the bed and a small table by it, on which there was a pitcher of water and a crude mug. Someone, likely mom, had tucked in my favorite doll next to me in bed. A shadow fell across the doorway. “We’re leaving you. Da says your sick. Mom is crying. We have to take the wagon far to the south, and leave all the crops.” I tried to speak but my mouth was terribly dry. I gasped out, “Water. Please.” My sister hesitated, know I realize that she had been told not to go back into the house. Her eyes glimmered with something I didn’t like very much at all, and she rushed into the house, snatched my doll out of bed and calmly poured the pitcher of water on the floor. “You’re dead. I’m not. Hopefully you’ll die before any wolves find you.” She walked out the door. As it banged shut, I saw the wagon, driving away. My sister sitting on the back, swinging her legs happily. With a wicked smile she made my dolly wave goodbye to me. I did in fact, die before any wolves found me. Perhaps die is not the right word, for here I sit, warmed wine in hand. I prefer to use the term “awoke.” When I first awoke, it was as if I had only slept a moment. We were mustered out of the charnel house and pushed into the field. Get those boxes. Kill the bats. Bring this to the innkeeper. Hurry, hurry, hurry. It was as if the end of all was coming and we had to hurry to prepare. I took to it with ferocity, and it wasn’t long before I attracted the Eye of the Lady herself. She assigned me a mission in another continent, and I accepted. As I was bowing in thanks, an attempt was made on her life by a gnome. Foolish thing, delicious though he was. When I arrived in Kalimdor, I was not impressed, dust and scorpions being two of my least favorite things. Oh, and harpies…I hate harpies. One thing leading to another I found myself in Tauren lands. The land comforted me, reminded me what my home had been like when I was a child. I returned often to Bloodhoof Village, to defend it against marauding bandits, and in a weaker time, with the blasting powder caked on my nostrils, I imagined myself a Tauren. The days went on, and I grew stronger. Spells to hurt, spells to heal, spells that would let me jump off the highest point in Thunder Bluff with a feather in my hand and land far, far below. I jumped many times, the slow descent comforting in a way in which I felt safe. Strange, to feel safe while falling. I joined no group yet traveled with many different friends, and fought the Alliance wherever I found them. I noticed that some were more honorable then others, and I even escorted a few inside the undercity to see the room where Arthas betrayed his people. A dwarf I remember, who liked to take his naps in a shed outside Tarren Mill. Within earshot of our guards! I had to thump him on the head a few times to quiet his snoring. I have struggled against insanity, like so many of those like me. For example, I once became convinced that the paladin Silverdawn was my doll-stealing sister, and pursued her across 2 continents. For a doll. I’m better now. Much better.